


Between fear and peace

by airafleeza, ellie-nors (flamewarrior)



Series: The thing with feathers [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Everyone Is A Decent Human Being, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers-centric, not quite a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 07:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11397759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamewarrior/pseuds/ellie-nors
Summary: Hope is the bridge between fear and peace.





	Between fear and peace

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of fix-it fic, set mainly in Wakanda, between the end of Captain America: Civil War and the mid-credits scene. It was written as part of the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017 for this amazingly beautiful art by [Airafleeza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Airafleeza/pseuds/Airafleeza) \-- go and give her some love! The banner concept is by [potofsoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/pseuds/potofsoup). The fic includes some aspects of Wakandan life that I pulled from the comics, or inferred from the fact that the two main languages there are Hausa and Yoruba.
> 
> A HUGE thank you goes to my beta, [obsessivereader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivereader), who worked at lightning speed, and really helped me get my words in order, as well as to the CapRBB mods, who have been amazing, so clear and lovely in their communication, and just an all round joy from start to finish of this challenge. ♥
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic. Kudos is awesome. Comments are love.

Steve pauses for a moment before he steps out into the snow, settling his arm more firmly around Bucky. Every muscle aches, his wounds sting, there’s an ache deep in his stomach where Tony blasted him point blank with his hand repulsor, but he knows he has to keep going. He has to get Bucky to safety, although where that would be now, he has no idea.

They make it fifty yards, shuffling at the fastest pace Bucky can manage through the snow, more falling around them, before Bucky passes out. Steve feels like crying, but he takes a deep breath, hoists Bucky over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, and starts walking again. 

The journey back to the quinjet is quicker like this, although Steve has to keep checking his bearings in the blankness of the snow. Finally, he sees its dark shape against the white and grey -- but it’s not the only shape there: a low, sleek, grey plane is just visible to the left of the quinjet. Steve stops walking for a moment to assess the situation. 

The plane’s design is not one that he recognises: not US government then, nor one of Tony’s, unless it’s a prototype. He has no information, which means that he’s walking into this situation blind, as well as exhausted; but he does need to walk into it. He has to get to the quinjet, or he and Bucky will be stuck here in the snow for the United Nations, or Ross or, hell, Tony to take potshots at again.

He takes a breath, feeling the cold of the air in his nostrils and his lungs, and steps forward again, a little slower, bearing a little more to the right. If he can just get to the quinjet without being noticed, he can get Bucky settled on a bunk and get the hell out of here. 

Carefully, cautiously, step by crunching step, Steve makes his way to the open maw of the quinjet. There are drifts of snow building up on the ramp as the fall of flakes grows thicker. Nearly there now. 

But just as Steve is starting to feel confident that he and Bucky can make it away clear, a distinctive shape in black and silver steps out from the lee of the quinjet’s side to stand in front of the ramp, blocking his way.

King T’Challa. 

He’s wearing his Black Panther suit, but his head is bare. Steve stops in his tracks and straightens up, adjusting Bucky on his shoulder, although he wants to let his shoulders slump, just sink down onto the ground and give up. But he stands as tall and firm as he’s able. 

“Captain,” says T’Challa, his voice quiet but clear.

“Your majesty,” replies Steve, resigned, trying to buy time while he finds the energy reserves he’ll need for yet another fight.

“I have apprehended Zemo,” T’Challa continues calmly. “He is restrained inside my aircraft, with a phalanx of Dora Milaje to guard him. I am ready to depart for the UN, but I wanted to offer you and Barnes any assistance that is within my power to grant, before I leave this place.”

“Your majesty,” says Steve again, this time with wonder in his voice. “You… seriously?”

T’Challa nods. 

“I owe Barnes a debt: it was because of my actions that he was wrongly imprisoned; it was because of my actions that Zemo got his chance to take control of Barnes’ mind. Tell me, Captain, what is it that you both need?”

Steve walks forward towards the ramp to stand in front of T’Challa.

“We need a safe place to go, somewhere Bucky can get medical and technological attention, somewhere we won’t be followed.”

“Then that you shall have, Captain,” replies T’Challa, and begins to walk up the ramp and into the quinjet. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the flight controls. 

Steve follows him up as far as the seating area, and gently sets Bucky down on one of the chairs. It’s not perfect, but he can pull a bunk out from the wall and get Bucky properly settled once they’re airborne. He has a hunch where T’Challa is going to direct them.

“I have set the flight co-ordinates for my private landing pad in the palace complex at Birnin Zana,” T’Challa says, turning to Steve, who has reached the front of the plane. “I will send a message ahead, to alert the palace staff to your arrival.” T’Challa places his hand on Steve’s shoulder, solid and reassuring. “You will both be well looked after, and you are welcome to stay in the palace compound, or anywhere else in my kingdom, for as long as you need or desire it. You will be safe; I will make sure of it.”

“Your majesty,” says Steve, overcome, “thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

“You may call me T’Challa,” says the king.

“Then please, call me Steve,” replies Steve. 

T’Challa squeezes Steve’s shoulder and smiles.

“Is there anything else that you need, Steve, before I depart?” he asks.

Now that Steve knows that Bucky is going to be safe, his thoughts turn back to Tony. Steve’s still angry, but now he’s cooled down from the fight, he realises his anger is at himself, at Zemo, at Pierce, at Ross, at HYDRA -- but not at Tony.

“There is one thing,” he says. “Would you go back into the complex there, and check that Tony’s okay? We had… the fight we had, it was brutal. He’s alive, he’s talking, he can move, but... I don’t know if his suit can fly, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before anyone comes to fetch him. I’d like to know that he’ll get home safe, too.”

“That I will certainly do,” T’Challa replies. He looks over Steve’s face, assessing. “You are a good man, Steve Rogers.”

Steve looks down at the ground, unable to accept T’Challa’s assessment in this moment. 

“Go now,” continues T’Challa. “I will see you in Birnin Zana.”

And with that, he turns and leaves, gait unhurried as he walks towards the brilliant whiteness outside. Steve watches as he steps out into the snow, then closes the ramp and takes the quinjet up.

\--

The controls in the cockpit look exactly the same as they have for the past twenty minutes, which is how long Steve’s been sitting up here, letting Bucky get some rest on the bunk in the back of the quinjet. Every thirty seconds, he turns his head to check that Bucky’s okay; mostly, though, he’s stewing in his own guilt.

If only he’d put more effort and energy into looking for Bucky, after Bucky’d rescued Steve from the Potomac. If he’d pulled on that thread that Natasha had warned him off, he could have found Bucky, got him help to recover, brought him _home_. But instead, Bucky had spent two years entirely alone, painfully piecing his memories together, piecing a _life_ together. 

Then, just when Bucky’d found a haven (Steve refused to call the place he’d been living in a home), just when he’d found a quiet rhythm in a quiet life, the trouble that followed the Avengers everywhere had latched onto him, and Zemo had framed him for that terrible attack. 

And it hadn’t even been because of anything Bucky himself had chosen, but simply because his past, and what he had been forced to do, could be used to place a wedge between Steve and Tony. 

No-one has done anything to Bucky but use him for seventy years -- including, when he really thinks about it, Steve himself. He’d used Bucky’s loyalty to keep him in the war in the 1940s, and he’d used it again, here and now, to make sure Bucky came with him to Siberia. Both times, Steve had lost something precious, but what Bucky had lost… It didn’t bear thinking about. 

And it was, at root, because of Steve’s selfishness. He can rework it any way he wants, but deep down, Steve knows that it’s true. And his selfishness had been obvious enough that Zemo had seen it, and been able to use that as part of his plan, too.

He looks down at his hands in his lap, and he feels ashamed. 

He stays like that for an hour or so, but eventually, he’s had enough of wallowing in guilt. Steve gets up and goes to the back of the plane, and spends the rest of the journey to Wakanda there, sitting by Bucky’s bunk, just watching him sleep. He has to hold himself back from reaching out to brush back his hair, or touch his cheek a few times. More than a few times.

Bucky is almost unbearably precious to him: wounded and weak in this moment, but alive. 

Eventually, the quinjet comes down over the lush forests of Wakanda, landing on a flat area of what looks like sand, next to where buildings rise from the trees, more futuristic than any Steve had seen in America, yet at the same time organic in their curves and colours.

So, this is T’Challa’s kingdom.

Steve stands up and leans over Bucky.

“Hey, Buck.”

Steve keeps his voice soft and low; he doesn’t want to allow anything harsh around Bucky, not ever again. He rests his hand on Bucky’s arm, and squeezes gently.

“Bucky, we’re here; we’ve landed in Wakanda.” 

Slowly, Bucky wakes, eyelids flickering, then opening. Steve lifts his hand away as Bucky raises his arm to rub his fingers over his forehead.

“Okay,” Bucky replies, voice rough, accepting Steve’s statement even though he’d had no idea that Wakanda had been their destination. 

He sits up gradually, rolling onto his side and pushing himself up. Steve hovers over him, feeling ineffectual. Eventually, he finds a use for his quivering hands, steadying Bucky gently as he settles himself on the edge of the bunk. 

They stay like that for a little while: Bucky looking down at his knees and breathing quietly, Steve with his hands resting on Bucky, one on his shoulder, one on his waist. Bucky’s steady now, but he makes no move to stand. Steve lets go and sits down on the bunk next to him. 

“Do you want to stay here a little bit?” Steve asks. “We can if you want, it’s just…”

Bucky looks up at him, still and silent. Steve looks back. There is quiet between them: they breathe, together. For a few seconds, Steve feels that there is nothing beyond them, that there is only this moment, and the two of them, breathing. 

He lifts his left hand up to cup Bucky’s face, moves his hand down to the side of his neck, and Steve feels like he can see Bucky’s heart, Bucky’s very soul, in his eyes. Bucky’s gaze drops, for a moment -- to Steve’s lips? -- then back up again. 

Steve feels a current pass between them, the way he used to, sometimes, in Brooklyn, or in that bar in London, or in the damp and cold of camps across Europe, when they sat together, quiet and close. 

They take a shuddering breath, at the same time, together. Bucky closes his eyes, and his lips part. Steve leans his face forward, towards Bucky’s, breath coming light and quick, eyelids fluttering shut. It feels, to Steve, as if everything hangs suspended for that moment. Is it possible, after all this time, that they could seal this final gap between them? 

Then Steve’s guilt rises again. Bucky is in shock; he can’t fully know what he’s doing, and Steve is suddenly horrified at the thought of using Bucky, again, in this, of all ways. He rests his forehead against Bucky’s and wraps his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, holding him tenderly, careful of the torn socket where his metal arm used to be.

“We can just stay here, like this, for a little bit, if that’s what you want,” Steve says at last.

Bucky moves to rest his chin on Steve’s shoulder, and brings Steve in for a hug. Steve can feel Bucky’s breath against his ear, feel his heartbeat against his chest. That Bucky is alive, that Bucky is here, with Steve: it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

They can’t stay like that forever though, much as Steve would like to.

“Come on,” Steve says at last, “time to get you to a medic.”

Bucky tenses at his words, but doesn’t resist as Steve ends their embrace and helps him down off the bunk and out of the quinjet. The ramp descends, and they walk down it, and out into the bright light and heat of the Wakandan day. Steve raises his right hand to shield both their faces from the sun. The air outside is moist, and there are sweet scents of flowers and ripe fruit on the breeze. 

Before Steve can take in much of his surroundings, though, a tall, dark woman, wearing a combination of red fabric and gold armor, steps forward into his line of sight.

“Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes.” she says: a statement, not a question. “You will follow me.”

She turns smartly on her heel, and begins to walk towards one of the buildings which stand a few hundred yards away. Steve and Bucky follow after her, as fast as they’re able; Bucky follows Steve’s lead, both of them silent with exhaustion. The woman pauses at the building’s entrance, standing tall and still as she waits for them. She starts walking again once they’re a step behind her, adopting a slower pace as they enter the building.

“There are doctors awaiting you on the medical floor of the palace,” she says, as they walk down corridors and up staircases, all of them light and airy, but without the blinding brightness of the sun. “There is a suite set aside for you, once you are released from their care.”

Steve wonders if this woman ever does small talk. It’s clear enough to see that she’s a soldier, and a highly disciplined one at that. He’s jolted from his wandering thoughts as the soldier stops walking suddenly, and stands beside a door.

“This is the medical facility, where your injuries will be treated, and your health assessed,” she states. “When the doctors’ work is complete, I will return to escort you to your suite of rooms.”

Steve nods at her, and says, “Thank you…” then realises he doesn’t know her name. She has done a neat about-face and is a good few yards down the corridor before Steve has gathered his thoughts enough to ask her for it. Ah well; he can ask her when she comes to collect them. 

He sighs, and knocks on the door in front of him. He tightens his arm around Bucky as he waits. Although Bucky had managed to keep his feet moving as they made their way here from the quinjet, it’s clear that he’s reached the end of his reserves again: his eyes are drooping, and he’s sagging against Steve’s side. Steve brushes the hair away from Bucky’s cheek, and kisses him gently there, reckless in his exhaustion. 

But Bucky doesn’t stir, not even when the door opens to reveal a man dressed all in white, a good head shorter than Steve, and with skin a deep brown color, even deeper than James Rhodes… Steve shuts off that line of thinking before it can begin. He can’t take care of people who aren’t here, only the people who are, and right now, that’s Bucky.

“Come in, come in,” the man is saying, and Steve follows his instruction, more or less dragging Bucky in beside him.

The room they enter is all done out in white, sleek and modern -- beyond modern to Steve’s eyes. It doesn’t even really look like a medical space at all. Steve’s glad of that, for when Bucky’s conscious again.

“Sit down, sit yourselves both down,” continues the man as he shuts the door behind them, indicating two chairs which flank an examination table. Steve gently sits Bucky down, then sits himself, allowing Bucky to lean against him. The man who let them both into the room -- a doctor, Steve assumes -- perches on the edge of the table. 

“I am Doctor Shoyebi,” he says, fingers folded in his lap, one leg resting on the ground. “I understand that you are Steve Rogers, and your friend here is James Barnes. King T’Challa has instructed me to care for you both in any way that I can.”

“Thank you, doctor,” says Steve, “but really, I’m fine, it’s Bucky, James, who needs the attention.”

Doctor Shoyebi looks down at Steve with a stern look in his eyes, but it is belied by their twinkle. 

“You will leave that for me to ascertain, Captain Rogers,” he says with a smile. 

“Of… of course,” stammers Steve. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just, well, Bucky, James... I’d be very grateful if you’d examine him first.”

“I am not offended,” says the doctor, affably, “and we have more than enough medical staff to examine the both of you at the same time.” 

He looks over Steve’s face for a moment, then adds, “Although, if it would ease your soul, we can examine Sergeant Barnes while you are sitting here.”

Steve lets his shoulders slump in relief.

“Yes, please. Thank you. Thank you.”

The doctors and nurses are quiet during their examination of Bucky. Steve manages to rouse him just enough that he’s not a dead weight as they remove his jacket, boots and trousers, and get him up onto the table, but Bucky falls into full unconsciousness again almost as soon as he’s lying down, so Steve has to answer questions about his physical condition and the cause of his injuries as best he can. 

The medical staff examine Bucky quickly and efficiently, using equipment Steve doesn’t recognise, even with his repeated exposure to American hospitals during his time in the twenty-first century. Then its his own turn. 

Another examination table is brought into the room, from a door at the side, so that Bucky can continue to rest undisturbed. Steve strips out of his uniform and lies down on the examination table, but he keeps his head turned, so that Bucky stays in his line of sight the whole time. 

The doctors and nurses are just as efficient with him as they were with Bucky, and after a few questions, they allow him to sit up again. He doesn’t put his uniform back on. Doctor Shoyebi and another doctor -- or nurse, Steve’s not sure -- walk a few feet away to what Steve guesses is a computer screen embedded into the wall, and they confer quietly, heads bent together. Finally, they nod, and Doctor Shoyebi returns to stand beside Steve.

“You are remarkably healthy, for a man who was in such a vicious fight, such a short time ago,” he comments, looking Steve in the eye.

“Well, you know, super soldier serum,” Steve responds with a shrug.

“I do not know, but I have heard. It is impressive, but perhaps uncomfortable, for your wounds to heal and your cells to regenerate with such speed. Would you like some pain relief?”

Steve is taken aback by the question. It’s not something that American medics, brought up as they all were on the legend of Captain America, have ever asked him; they always seem to assume that healing at the rate Steve does means that he suffers less pain than the average person, not more. 

“It _is_ uncomfortable,” Steve replies after a moment, allowing himself the understatement for the sake of politeness, “but I’ve yet to find any pain relief that works on me that also allows me to remain lucid. And even the ones that make me woozy are out of my system in a matter of minutes rather than hours. So, thank you for asking, but no.”

The doctor nods at him, looking thoughtful. 

“There is not much we can do for you then, right at this moment, other than to monitor your condition.” 

He holds out a red cord to Steve, with three beads threaded onto it. 

“These are Kimoyo beads,” the doctor continues. “Every Wakandan wears them, from the day they are born. They transmit the wearer’s vital signs and brainwave patterns to our central computers here, so that we can know your state of health, wherever you are in the world.”

Steve hesitates, then puts out his left hand. Doctor Shoyibe ties the beads onto his wrist, leaving just enough slack that they’re comfortable, but won’t slip past the base of his hand. 

“It is not compulsory that you wear them,” the doctor continues. “If, when you are fully healed, you decide to remove them, we shall simply hold them safely for you here. It would set my mind at ease, though, if you would wear them while you are still healing.

“This bead,” he continues, pointing to the bead nearest Steve’s pinkie finger, “is the prime bead. It collects medical data and transmits it to us here. This one,” he says, pointing to the middle bead, “gives you access to our information network. If you touch it, like this…”

A screen appears in mid-air above Steve’s wrist, with menus and what looks like a search bar. 

“Oh, it’s in English!” he says in surprise.

“Yes, Captain Rogers,” the doctor replies with a chuckle. “What use would it be to you if it were only in Hausa or Yoruba? And the final bead will allow you to communicate with anyone who has allowed you to access their communication bead also. At present, that is just myself, but I am sure that others will be added soon.”

“Thank you,” says Steve. He’s beginning to feel a little overwhelmed, and the exhaustion that’s been edging its way into his awareness since he walked out of the facility in Siberia is now fully entrenched. He grips the bracelet formed by the thread around his wrist, feeling the beads move against his skin. 

“What about Bucky?” he asks.

“We have not yet placed the Kimoyo beads on him, as he is likely to need our attention here for a while yet; the beads are not needed while he is directly under our care. But you are free to go to the quarters that have been prepared for you.”

The doctor looks up at him expectantly. Steve is about to insist he stay by Bucky’s side, but then he remembers where he is, and his position here: a guest, here at King T’Challa’s pleasure, with no legal standing. The urgency of his need to care for Bucky battles with his common sense, and both struggle under his fatigue.

His quandary must be apparent to Doctor Shoyibe, though, because the doctor asks, “Does something trouble you, Captain Rogers?”

Steve grapples for a moment with how to ask for what he wants without coming across as demanding and rude. 

Finally, he says, “I just… Bucky’s my oldest friend, more like family -- the only family I’ve got. I’d feel so much better if we could stay in the same room while he’s recovering.”

The frown on the doctor’s face relaxes, and he smiles gently at Steve.

“Of course, Captain Rogers,” replies Doctor Shoyibe. “That will be no trouble at all.”

The doctor goes back to the wall console, and talks quietly for a moment. Shortly afterwards, two white-clad medical staff come through the door to the corridor, and wheel Bucky out on the examination table. Doctor Shoyibe indicates for Steve to follow them. 

It’s only a short walk to the private room they are settled in. The surfaces are all white, just like the room they’ve just come from, but the space here is smaller, and there are a few homey touches: curtains across the windows, two beds, and a comfy looking loveseat with a colourful pillow and throw. 

The staff turn back the covers on the bed nearest the door, and move Bucky into it with such deftness and efficiency that Bucky doesn’t even stir. They tap a few controls on the side of his bed, then nod to Doctor Shoyibe and leave. The doctor checks over the controls, and looks closely at Bucky’s face, then nods himself, and turns to Steve.

“You are welcome to stay here for as long as Sergeant Barnes needs to remain under our direct care,” he says. “You are free to wander the palace, and the grounds and gardens as much as you want; but I sense that you will want to stay with your friend.”

Steve nods.

“Food will be brought to you here, then, Captain Rogers,” says Doctor Shoyibe. “Rest now: that is not merely a suggestion, but a command from your doctor.”

He smiles his avuncular smile at Steve, who nods again.

“Willco,” he replies, and sits down on the empty bed.

The doctor leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him; Steve curls onto his side on top of the covers, and watches Bucky breathe.

\--

Steve wakes to see Bucky sitting up in bed and talking quietly to Doctor Shoyibe. Steve rubs a hand across his face and clears the sleep from his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion and a full belly from the food that had been brought to him had pulled him under. He pushes himself up and sits on the side of his bed, feet touching the floor.

“Ah, Captain Rogers is awake. Good morning.” 

Doctor Shoyibe greets Steve, and Bucky turns to face him.

“Steve,” he says, his voice still rough and quiet, despite the rest he’s had.

“Bucky,” Steve replies, then finds himself at a loss for what to say next.

“Now you are awake, would you both join me for breakfast in your rooms?” asks the doctor. “They are ready and prepared for you, and you are both well enough now to move there.”

“What do you think, Buck?” asks Steve.

Bucky shrugs, then winces and rubs gently at his left shoulder.

“Sure,” he says.

Steve notices that the wires and electronics that had been dangling loose from Bucky’s shoulder are now tidied away somehow, but what’s left of the workings of his metal arm are still on display.

“Come, then,” says Doctor Shoyibe.

He opens the door and waits for them as they stand, still dressed only in their underthings. But the doctor hasn’t commented on it, so it must be expected. Steve watches Bucky get up and make his way towards the door; he wants to wrap his arm around Bucky, to support him, but he’s standing fine on his own, and walks through the door by himself without incident.

They follow Doctor Shoyibe down the corridor and up a curving flight of stairs to an open atrium space. Unlike the medical wing, this area is coloured in muted earth tones, running from light sand, through tan, to rich coppery reds. There are three doors leading from the space; the doctor makes for the one directly ahead of them. 

“Sergeant Barnes, if you would raise your Kimoyo beads to the control?” requests Doctor Shoyibe.

Bucky raises his hand to hover next to a small, matte black panel on the wall, and Steve notices the beads around his wrist on a red thread, just like his own. The door opens with a quiet click, and the doctor indicates for Bucky and Steve to go ahead into the room. 

The room, like the atrium, is coloured in earth tones. There is a screen on the wall to their left, between two doorways, and to their right, floor to ceiling windows lead out onto a balcony. Low, soft-looking furniture in shades of cream and gold sit around the edges of the room, with pillows and throws in the same bright colors and patterns as the ones in the medical room they’ve just left.

The doctor leads them through the glass doors and out onto the balcony, where rattan chairs are set around a low table, shaded from the sun by an awning which juts out from the wall. On the table are deep plates of what look like grits, some small, dark patties, what looks like it might be fried banana, and fried eggs, with a large bowl in the centre piled high with fruit.

“Help yourselves,” declares the doctor, and wastes no time in following his own advice. 

Steve picks up an empty plate from the end of the table, and starts adding food to it, keeping an eye on Bucky the whole time, to see how he’ll manage one-handed. But he shouldn’t have worried. Bucky has left the last empty plate where it is on the end of the table, and is using the spoons and slices that rest by the food to serve himself. When he’s done, Bucky sits down in one of the chairs, puts his plate on his lap, and sets to.

Steve follows suit, and soon the three of them are silently making their way through breakfast, the only sounds the calls of birds and their appreciative hums at how good the food is.

When breakfast is over, Doctor Shoyibe shows them the rest of their suite. Each of the two doors from the main room lead to a bedroom, where clothes are laid out for each of them on the bed. Each has its own bathroom attached. Bucky’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing.

When the doctor is assured that they both know how to use the taps and levers in the bathroom, and have mastered their communication beads well enough to request food, and to contact medical if they should need to, he leaves them, with a last word for Bucky:

“Come back to the medical floor at noon, and we will complete the work on your shoulder.”

Bucky nods, says, “Thank you,” and then the doctor is gone and it’s just the two of them, standing in the centre of the common room.

“What work’s the doc gonna do on your shoulder, Buck?” asks Steve, after a minute or two of silence.

“Just gonna finish sealing it up,” says Bucky.

“Oh,” says Steve.

After a moment more’s silence, they both go to their rooms to put clothes on.

“You want to come for a walk?” asks Steve, when they both emerge.

“Sure,” replies Bucky, so they do.

The palace grounds are extensive, with several gardens, as well as other buildings. By unspoken agreement, they don’t go near the buildings, but they do wander the gardens together in silence, enjoying the morning sun, the bright flowers, and the shade of the trees.

At the edge of the orderly space of the grounds is a narrow field of long grass, beyond which is a forest. It holds no appeal for Steve, but Bucky stands for a long time, gazing into the shadows and underbrush. 

Eventually, they return to the palace. Bucky turns off at the medical floor. 

“Hey, Buck, you want me to come with you?” Steve asks. 

Bucky turns back to face him.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, voice still quiet and raw at the edges.

“Okay then,” says Steve. “I’ll go and get us some lunch set up,” and watches as Bucky walks away from him towards the doors behind which the doctors and nurses and medical technicians of the palace do their work.

\--

Bucky returns to the suite just as food arrives for lunch, wheeled in on a trolley. Once he’s allowed Steve to look at the smooth black cap the doctors have created for his left shoulder, he eats quietly, giving Steve’s conversational gambits monosyllabic answers, then retreats to his room. Steve sighs to himself. He guesses an afternoon nap wouldn’t go amiss. 

When he closes the door to his room, though, and sits down on the bed, the rattling of the Kimoyo beads against his wrist reminds him that he has an entire country’s worth of information at his fingertips; and if Wakandan information technology is anything like their medicine, architecture, and everything else Steve’s seen in his short time here, it should be a lot easier to navigate than Google. He taps on the relevant bead, and a menu appears in mid-air, above his wrist.

He ends up lying on his back on the bed, scrolling through information about Wakanda, its history, society, economy, and technology. It’s fascinating, but it can only hold his attention for so long. Now that Bucky’s safe, and getting medical attention, Steve’s mind doesn’t have that immediate worry to occupy it; he starts thinking, instead, about what might have happened to Sam, Clint, Wanda, and Scott. 

As soon as the thought enters his head, anxiety and a sense of urgency rise in his gut. But what resources does he have here? None but the goodwill of King T’Challa. It’s urgent, then, that he talk to the king as soon as he can.

He taps on the communication bead, and sees a menu of contacts float up into the air: Doctor Shoyibe, Bucky, the catering staff, and… King T’Challa. Surely, Steve doesn’t have a direct line to the head of state? 

Well, thinks Steve, there’s only one way to find out.

The area around T’Challa’s name flashes blue and green, then his face appears in the air -- like a Skype call, but Steve can see the ceiling _through_ T’Challa’s head.

“Good afternoon, Steve,” says T’Challa, greeting Steve with no indication that he has been taken away from important matters of state, although that is almost undoubtedly the case.

“Your Majesty… T’Challa, I apologise for disturbing you,” Steve begins, but T’Challa quickly interrupts him.

“Not at all; please do not concern yourself,” he says. “I am actually surprised it has taken you this long to contact me.”

“Bucky and I have been getting medical attention,” Steve replies, “but I wanted to talk to you as soon as possible about the fallout from everything that’s happened -- especially how Sam, and the rest who helped me and Bucky get away to Siberia are doing.”

T’Challa nods, face solemn.

“That is of grave concern to me also, Steve,” says T’Challa. “As far as I know, they are safe for the time being, but their situation indeed requires discussion, along with a great deal else. I am due back in Wakanda this evening. Perhaps you would join me in my quarters for a meal, and we can discuss all this then?”

“Yes, yes please,” replies Steve, swallowing the ‘your Majesty’ that wants to make it’s way out of his mouth.

“Good,” says T’Challa. “I shall send Nakia to fetch you. Farewell until then.”

And with that, T’Challa’s face disappears, and Steve is looking at his contacts menu again.

He should tell Bucky about his plans for the evening, Steve thinks, but it’s only been half an hour since Bucky went into his room, presumably to rest. Perhaps a rest would do Steve some good, too. He rolls onto his side, and closes his eyes.

\--

Steve wakes to a gentle knocking on his door. He rouses himself and gets up to open it. On the other side, Bucky is standing up straight, looking neat, despite his lopsidedness with only one arm. He’s washed and combed and looks put together.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, he voice a little crackly with sleep. “You’re looking good. Got a date?”

This doesn’t stir the laugh from Bucky it would once have done, but the side of his mouth liftsin a small smile.

“Just dinner with the doctor. We need to talk about treatment options, and the brain doctors on his staff think it would be better for me to do that in a relaxed environment.”

It sounds like Bucky’s reciting someone else’s words from memory. Steve resists the frown he can feel forming on his face, and makes himself smile instead.

“That’s great. They all seem very considerate,” he manages in reply.

Bucky does a half nod that comes across like a shrug, like he doesn’t really know either way, and it matters to him even less. Steve’s about to offer to go with him, when he remembers his own dinner plans with the king.

“I’m having dinner with T’Challa, so that works out great,” he says instead, trying to sound enthusiastic in the face of Bucky’s apathy.

Bucky nods again.

“Okay, then. I guess I’ll see you tonight,” Bucky says, then he walks silently to the door, and leaves.

Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. Okay, okay. Bucky’s good for the evening. Steve needs to focus on Sam and the rest now, and on making sure they’re okay. 

He takes a shower and picks out the most formal-looking clothes in the cabinet in his room. He may be on first name terms with the King of Wakanda, but T’Challa is still the King of Wakanda. It wouldn’t feel right to show up dressed sloppy.

There is a gentle chiming from the door, just as he’s adjusting his cuffs for the umpteenth time. He opens it to find the same soldier who’d led him and Bucky up to medical yesterday.

“You must be Nakia,” Steve says. 

“That is my name,” she replies. “Are you ready?” she asks, clearly not any more ready for small talk this evening than she had been yesterday morning.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Lead the way.”

And she does. 

They climb the stairs all the way to the top of the palace, where King T’Challa is standing to greet them, looking formal, dressed in dark grey, except for the fact that his feet are bare. The sand-colored wall behind him is curved, with several doors and doorways set into it.

“Steve,” he says, holding out both of his hands and clasping Steve’s firmly when he raises them in return. 

He nods to Nakia, who takes up a stance at the top of the stairs, alert and ready, then gestures for Steve to follow him through a door that is hidden behind a bend in the wall, to the left of the staircase. 

Once inside, it’s clear to Steve that this is the most private of T’Challa’s meeting rooms, a space where he can relax and be at home. There is still a guard inside the door -- another tall, dark woman dressed in red fabric, with armour shining like gold -- but apart from that, the room lacks utterly in formality. There are throws and cushions, furniture and ornaments, arranged haphazardly around the modest space, in a pattern that suggests a home, rather than a palace.

“Come, sit,” says T’Challa, indicating an oversized cushion beside a round, low table, solid wood with a beautiful grain, and covered in bowls of food.

T’Challa himself takes a seat on a cushion at the opposite side of the table, descending gracefully into a cross-legged position, while Steve awkwardly crumples himself down, and finds a way to sit that isn’t too uncomfortable. 

Once they both have a plate of food, and T’Challa has spoken a blessing in what Steve assumes is a Wakandan language, Steve can’t be patient and polite any longer.

“Do you have some news about Sam and Clint and the rest?” he asks.

T’Challa’s face, which had been showing his enjoyment of the food, becomes solemn.

“It is not as bad for them as could be feared, but it is not good. Through diplomatic channels, I have learnt that Wilson, Barton, Maximoff and Lang are being held on The Raft, an extremely secure facility in the middle of the ocean. It was built to contain meta-humans and mutants who refuse to register with the Accords.”

Steve gasps. T’Challa nods in understanding.

“I tried to arrange a visit with legal representation, but even as a sovereign head of state, I have no rights in relation to people who are not my citizens,” T’Challa says.

His voice and demeanour are grave; but with his next words, both lighten a little.

“As a signatory to the Accords, however, and one who could do much damage to that agreement should I choose, I do have some leverage. I was able to see them in their cells, although I was not able to talk to them. They are alive, and able to move -- apart from young Ms Maximoff, who is kept in a straitjacket. They had access to water, although I do not know about food.”

Steve’s mind races. He’s relieved to know that they’re all alive, at least. He had his fears there. But Wanda in a straitjacket? 

“Are they getting medical attention? Do we know how long they’ll be held for? Are they being charged?”

T’Challa spread his hands and shook his head.

“That, I do not know. The Raft is in international waters, and is flying under the flag of the United States, which means that anyone, US citizen or not, can be held there, indefinitely, without charge, at the President’s pleasure.”

Steve blanches. He can literally feel the blood running from his face. He had always hated the Patriot Act, but it had never been at the top of his agenda. Now? He’s glad he left the shield behind in Siberia. In these circumstances, standing for the stars and stripes as Captain America seems naive at best, and at worst would be giving direct support to tyranny.

He rubs his hands over his face, trying to restore some circulation.

“What can we do?” he asks.

“Legally? Nothing,” replies T’Challa. “However, in these circumstances, in which good people are held captive, with no appeal or redress, simply for preventing injustice, I think it may be possible for another way to be found.”

Steve nods.

“And you and I are not alone in our outrage. Tony Stark is also, to use his own words, ‘righteously pissed’,” T’Challa adds.

Steve takes a deep breath, before asking, “How is he?”

“Tony is a little bruised, but more so in heart than in body, I think,” answers T’Challa. “He is not a bad man, but as you know, for all his genius, his emotions overrun him given the slightest chance.”

Steve sighs.

“He always seemed better at managing things, when he and Pepper were still together,” Steve ponders aloud. “Do you think he might help, in getting Sam and the rest free from the Raft?”

T’Challa smiles and says, “He is not yet quite ready to help directly, but he will certainly not hinder any action that frees them, as long as it does so without bringing undue harm to the Raft personnel.”

Hearing even that concession loosens some of the tension around Steve’s heart. He and T’Challa settle in to eat their meal -- and to plan a prison break.

\--

The next few days are quiet. Steve doesn’t like it. The plans that he and T’Challa agreed on are going to take some time to pull together, and until that’s done, there’s nothing Steve can do. He knows he should be glad to have the luxury of doing nothing, but all he really feels is impotent. The lack of action chafes at him.

He is genuinely glad to be able to spend time with Bucky, but it doesn’t seem like Bucky feels the same way. They go for a walk together in the gardens every morning, and as Bucky and he recover fully from their injuries over the next couple of days, they turn their walk into a run. 

But Bucky doesn’t smile, he barely talks, and every time they reach the field by the edge of the forest, Bucky stops and looks, deep into the darkness between the trees. Steve tells him briefly about the fact that T’Challa and he are planning a rescue for Sam and the others, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods.

About a week after they settled into their apartment, Bucky breaks his silence one evening, while they’re eating a delicious meal of fish stew with rice and plantain, out on their balcony. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “about what I should do next.”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I’ve talked to the doctors -- Doctor Shoyibe, and the brain doctors, Atansela and Ogungbemi -- and they can put me into cryo-suspension again,” Bucky says, looking at his hands in his lap.

“Buck,” whispers Steve, horrified, “no.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, looking up into Steve’s eyes, calm and clear, “hear me out. I know this is a safe place, maybe the safest in the world, but there’s still no guarantee that someone won’t find a way to get in, someone who knows about the trigger words. The doctors here are incredible, but even they don’t know how to remove them, to make me safe.”

“But, Bucky,” says Steve, his voice creaky with emotion.

“No, Steve,” Bucky interrupts, “listen, please. Maybe one day they’ll find a way to make sure I’m safe, make sure I can’t hurt anyone. But they’re not there yet, Steve. I can’t bear the thought of being turned into… into a weapon again.” Bucky’s eyes are wide, tears lining their lower lids. “You have no idea what it’s like Steve, to see what I’m doing, to see all the hurt, the damage I’m causing, and only be able to watch.”

Bucky looks away then, and wipes at his eyes. 

“I…” Steve starts, stops, starts again, “I didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to get your hopes up until I knew it was really possible, but… Wanda, the Scarlet Witch, she… she has incredible power over people’s minds. I really think she could work with the doctors here to free you from those damned words.”

Steve sees a strange look pass over Bucky’s face, like hope had risen for a moment, but had been pushed firmly away. When Bucky speaks again, he sounds like he’s choosing his words like picking his way through a minefield.

“Once Wanda’s here, maybe she and the doctors can do something.” Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes again; this time, his face is clear. “But she’s not here now, and... I cannot bear the thought of ever hurting you again, Steve. I’d gladly step into the freezer for eternity if it meant that never happens again. Don’t you know how much you matter to me?”

Steve feels like his heart is trying to soar and sink at the same time. Bucky and he, they’ve never put the feeling that’s always been there between them into words. What Bucky’s just said is the closest they’ve ever come, and Steve’s heart leaps to hear it. But at the same time, it’s clear to see that Bucky doesn’t believe anyone can help him. He’s resigned himself to spending eternity frozen, if need be.

And given that that’s the case, what does Steve have to lose?

Everything that’s ever stopped him from acting on his feelings for Bucky lifts away. Steve feels completely overwhelmed by how much he loves him. He reaches out to take Bucky’s hand between both of his own.

“Bucky, you matter to me, too. So much. I…” Steve takes a breath to steady himself for what he’s about to say. “I love you, Bucky, with my whole heart.”

He brings Bucky’s fingers to his lips, and kisses them.

“I love you,” he says again, kissing the back of Bucky’s hand. 

He repeats those three words again and again, punctuating each statement with a kiss: on the palm of his hand, on the tips of each finger. Bucky stares mutely at him, mouth open, then tries to pull his hand back. After a moment of holding on, resisting Bucky’s pull away, Steve lets go.

“Steve,” he says, “you don’t gotta say that. You don’t gotta do that. I know you don’t mean it that way, and it’s not gonna make me change my mind.”

Steve scrubs his hands across his face, frustrated tears welling in his eyes.

“Bucky, I know it’s not gonna change your mind. That’s not why… I love you, Bucky. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. I’m kissing you because I want to, because I want to love you that way, because I’ve always wanted to love you that way.”

“But…” Bucky starts, voice weak, eyes wide. “But you were in love with Peggy, and just the other week, you were kissing that blonde agent. I saw it, it happened right in front of me. You can’t want me that way.”

He sounds almost panicked. Steve turns his chair to face Bucky’s fully, and places his hands on Bucky’s knees.

“I did love Peggy,” he says, gentling his voice, “and I would have married her, if I’d had the chance. But that didn’t stop me from loving you. And…” he makes himself say it. “And kissing Sharon was a mistake. I had this messed up idea that I owed her a kiss. We’d just buried Peggy, for God’s sake, and I go and kiss her niece?”

That surprises a laugh out of Bucky, genuine and loud, and Steve grins to see it. It seems to settle Bucky, because when he next speaks, he’s smiling, and there’s the hint of a twinkle in his eye, the kind he used to get when he was flirting with girls in the dance halls in Brooklyn. 

“So you mean to say, all these years, you been carryin’ a torch for me, while I been carryin’ one right back? What a pair o’ chumps.”

Steve honest to God giggles at that, although his throat is thick with emotion.

“Come here,” Steve says. 

He cups a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, and Bucky moves forward with it, meeting Steve as he’s leaning in -- and finally, _finally_ , they kiss.

It’s warm, so warm, and even just this, just the dry pressure of Bucky’s lips on his, sends a shiver up Steve’s spine. They kiss again, and again, each one longer and a little wetter than the last, until they’re necking like a pair of kids, giving each other hickies, moaning and giggling by turns.

“Come to bed,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s hair, as Bucky bites his way along Steve’s collarbone. “Come to bed with me. Right now.”

“Why, Mr. Rogers,” purrs Bucky, between bites, “I’ll have you know that I am _absolutely_ that kind of girl.”

Steve laughs, loud and free. As if by magic, Bucky is back with him: _his_ Bucky, if only for this moment. He stands up, pulling Bucky with him, manoeuvring them, still kissing, into the sitting room. Steve kicks the door to one of the bedrooms open -- he doesn’t know which one, and doesn’t care, and backs until his calves hit the bed.

Steve lets himself fall backwards and drags Bucky with him. Bucky lands on top of him, and their bouncing off the mattress breaks their kiss. Steve tries to get right back to it, but Bucky lifts up on his elbow, resting his weight on it while he traces a finger over Steve’s eyebrow, down his cheekbone, over his lips. Steve licks at the finger and sucks it into his mouth. Bucky’s eyes flutter, and he lets out a breathy gasp.

“Steve,” he says, serious again, “it’s been a long, long, _long_ time since I’ve done this. I might…”

Steve releases his finger.

“Hey,” he says, cupping Bucky’s face in both hands, “whatever we do, or don’t do, is perfect. You’re here, I’m here: we’re here together.” He smiles. “And anyway, you’ll remember enough. It’s just like riding a bicycle.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, smirking down at Steve. “But don’t talk about yourself that way.”

It takes Steve a moment to get the joke, but when he does, he throws his head back and laughs. He can’t seem to stop; after a little while, Bucky can’t help but join in. 

When they finally calm down again, Steve wraps his arms around Bucky and holds on tight. Whatever happens, they have this moment together, laughing, in love. For now, tomorrow can wait.

\--

Their night together is perfect, but tomorrow doesn’t actually wait, not for anyone, not even for love. His decision made, Bucky doesn’t wait around. As much as he hates it, Steve also understands it; what, exactly, would Bucky be waiting for?

By noon the next day, the doctors have the cryo-tube ready. As Steve walks into the room where it’s held, he thinks that Bucky looks like an angel, dressed all in white -- an angel who lost his wings, as well as his arm, when he fell. Bucky’s sitting on an examination table, a saline drip going into his arm to get him properly hydrated before he goes under.

Despite the intimacy they shared last night, Steve feels awkward now. He wants to touch Bucky again, to hold him, but he just stands there, like an idiot. He shoved his hands into his pockets before he even walked into the room, to stop himself from doing anything stupid. He doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s trying to change his mind.

He can’t stop himself asking though, just to be certain.

“You sure about this?”

Bucky looks lost again as he answers.

“I can’t trust my own mind,” he says, then smiles in a way that breaks Steve’s heart. “So until they figure out how to get this stuff outta my head, I think going back under’s the best thing -- for everybody.”

The doctors run their last tests of the equipment, check Bucky over one last time. Then Bucky’s standing in the cryo-tube, and the procedure takes place. It’s so fast. Steve looks at Bucky for a moment: he looks peaceful, as if he’s sleeping, waiting for true love’s kiss to wake him. 

The two of them got that part the wrong way round, thinks Steve.

Steve turns to leave the room to go to his meeting with T’Challa, pushing his melancholy aside. It’s almost time to put their plan into effect, and bring Sam, and Wanda, and Clint, and Scott out of imprisonment and into the warmth of Wakanda. 

As he passes the examination table Bucky had been sitting on, his eye is caught by a flash of colour against the black surface: Bucky’s Kimoyo beads. Steve picks them up and holds them in his palm. It’s something, something of Bucky for Steve to carry with him. And when the time is right, when Wanda and the Wakandan doctors have figured out a way to free Bucky from those trigger words (and they will, they _will_ , he thinks with determination), Steve will return them to him.

He puts the beads and their thread into his pocket, and leaves without a backward glance.

He has hope, and hope can only look forward.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic and art. I and Airafleeza would _love_ to hear your comments! 
> 
> I (ellie-nors) can also be found on [Tumblr](https://ellie-nors.tumblr.com/), where I post about my fannish obsessions, queerness, feminism, anti-racism, Paganism, occasionally yarn crafts & baking, and fluffy animals.
> 
> Airafleeza can also be found on [Tumblr](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/).


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